Just like the seasons as they are reversed
Our love runs backwards and gathers in the hearse.
The chapel, the steeple, elusive and sad
The cortege, procession, tear-torn and mad.
Come March we had winter for December’s spring
In August monsoons to drown our wedding rings.
October days grew long, money running out
Stymied by fortune, we spat to slake a drought.
By bearers of palls, impostor I stand
Hefting a load I cannot wait to land.
In rumination, in wonder, in mystery, in awe
Like the seasons running backward
I moved against the tide,
I said that I would be there
Little knowing that I lied.
The copyright of this post belongs to Ben Hargreaves